


Brighter than the sun

by Naiade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:09:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naiade/pseuds/Naiade





	Brighter than the sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



Growing up, Brienne had seen a lot of different smiles directed at her. Happy and adoring ones, in her childhood, and then wistful ones on his father's face, still tender but growing ever sadder as she grew bigger and stronger and wilder. Pitying ones, on a variety of faces.

And many, so many mocking smiles, cruel and cutting, slicing her down and cutting to her core in a way she'd never let a sword touch her. She'd trained hard and built up her stamina, worked on her defense: learned to withstand and power through ferocious attacks, barbs and cuts, both of words and weapons. Or so she told herself, even though the laughter burned at her eyes and cheeks and under her skin.  
Big and brutish as she was, and growing bigger and uglier each year, she had no choice but to get used to it; every attempt to play the delicate highborn maid she supposedly was always made her feel ridiculous, and a small part of her agreed with the giggles and the jibes and the crooked leers. 

And suddenly, outshining them all: Renly's smile. Full of light and joy, like a bright summer's day, and not a shade of cruelty darkening it. He'd been sixteen, a man grown, the most beautiful man Brienne had ever seen. He'd observed her carefully when they'd been introduced, looking interested and perhaps a little surprised, but not mocking. He'd talked to her with every courtesy and appeared interested in her conversation, had reacted with merry curiosity at her boasts of her skill with the sword and demanded to see her in action, as if he took her seriously.  
Brienne had been bracing herself for the humiliation, the inevitable twist of the mouth, the lilt in the tone of voice of His Highness the King's brother, reminding her of what a joke she was, but Renly had only smiled to her in earnest. You must show me, Lady Brienne, he'd said.  
She'd showed him, and had bested a knight of his entourage right there in the courtyard, a girl of thirteen wielding a wooden practice sword. Her opponent had tried to go easy on her, misled by her lady's gown, and had paid for that with his sword skittering away after Brienne's blow. Brienne had turned to Renly, panting from the effort and grinning widely, her hair having flown from the up-do; and Renly had grinned back, eyes shining, cheering and clapping and hooting in delight, as one does for a champion and not like one does for a mummer's display.  
"Well done, my lady," he'd shouted. "I say! If the boys in Storm's End your age fought half as good as you, house Baratheon would have taken the throne ages ago! Yours is a sword any man should be happy to have at his side!"  
And his words, his genuine glee at her triumph, had alighted in Brienne's heart a flame that flushed her with a bright, brilliant warmth.  
"House Tarth will always stand with you, my Lord, and my sword will always be at your side, should you wish it," she'd stammered solemnly, because it sounded like something a tourney champion would say, and because she was wild with her victory and Renly's praise. It was a ridiculous thing to say, of course.  
But Renly only smiled that brilliant, delighted smile of his, and thanked her, equally solemnly.

Later, during the feast Lord Selwyn threw in Lord Renly's honour, he remained unfailingly courteous and kind, full of smiles. Seated next to Brienne in the high table, he quipped and smiled and laughed at her clumsy jokes. They talked of swordplay and fencing tutors and tourneys and riding and warfare, and Renly complimented her knowledge. Brienne, aware of the looks they were getting, kept waiting for the axe to fall, unable to believe the moment was true. When he asked her to dance, her stomach dropped and she was certain that this was it, that now his laughter would turn on her, cruel and pitying. But he told her that a woman who could dance so smoothly in a duel will surely be as swift and sure on the dancefloor, and Brienne kept her gaze locked with his as if he was an opponent. Renly's smile was so loud it filled her head and heart, filled the room, and she forgot the audience, didn't hear the whispers, and danced gracefully, following his smile through the steps.

"I wish I could come and serve you at Storm's End," she sighed, pushing down against the stinging feeling in her eyes when the royal entourage was giving their goodbyes. "I would be better than any knight in your service, when I'm grown."  
"Then come, Lady Brienne," Renly had smiled. "If you will truly become that good, I would be honoured to have your sword, woman or no."

Brienne had taken his words as a promise, had trained harder than ever, and pestered his father till he'd let her follow the beacon of Renly's smile all the way to Storm's End. She'd shown up three years later, at sixteen a woman grown, tall and gangly and muscular from the constant sparring, with calloused hands and her hair shorn short. Her clothes, fine enough for a Lord's heir, were styled more like a man's. On her way to be received by him, she almost trembled with fear and anticipation, afraid that he'd finally look at her with pity and embarrasment and tell her he'd meant it as a jest, that everyone knew that women shouldn't play with swords.

But when she stepped in front of him and bent her knee, announcing that she had come to serve him, as she'd promised, that same smile alighted on Renly's face again, even more staggeringly brilliant now that he looked like a man grown.  
"Welcome, Brienne of Tarth," he'd said. "I hoped you would come." Brienne's heart soared.


End file.
